


Going Grey

by unbreakable_groundriot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Crowley is colorblind headcanon, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Couple, Not Britpicked, Pre-War Headcanons, Semi-Graphic Descriptions of Violence and Gore, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbreakable_groundriot/pseuds/unbreakable_groundriot
Summary: The lower order, angels with a lowercase a, were formed by the thousands. They were each given a name and a task and sent away. Each looked and acted the same as his brother beside him with hair spun from gold and eyes that glowed white. They asked no questions.Not quite your usual grey wing fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the post from probablystark on Tumblr that Crowley is color blind because of his eyes. The first three chapters are sort of background info

Angels were not born so much as they burst into existence as a ball of light brimming with possibility. At first, She had created each Light with a purpose in mind. She had created Lucifer and carefully molded him into perfection, but nothing was perfect. Perhaps She wept when he was lost.

Then she molded the Seraphim as She found She needed a voice. She realized later that creatures made of innumerable eyes were somewhat too frightening for her later creation.

Next came the Cherubim and each was carefully given a unique set of handcrafted wings. The shining hooves and melded faces were more for show, really.

There came others after this. The Archangels were formed one by one and whispered their roles in a voice so loving that, if they could, the young beings would have wept.

Then things grew tedious. She desired so many beings to love and She had so many tasks to perform. Crafting each Light by hand became more and more rare 

The lower order, angels with a lowercase a, were formed by the thousands. They were each given a name and a task and sent away. Each looked and acted the same as his brother beside him with hair spun from gold and eyes that glowed white. They asked no questions.

Crowley had been created in a group of ten thousand painters. He had been named something his mind could no longer fathom and had been sent away to be commanded by the Archangel Raphael. He and his brothers had carefully painted nebulas and supernovas. The colors had come from deep inside their minds. He and his brothers had been given imagination. They had been cursed with it, really. He had been the first to paint his hair with the red he favored for his creations. He had been the first to press glimmering stars into his eyes. His brothers followed suit and soon the ten thousand painters were a kaleidoscope of color.

Heaven was built by the angels and so was the universe. They formed the planets and the stars. They sang Her praises and they Loved. Time had not been created yet and it seemed as though eternity would be perfect.

Then She reached out and created Earth.

Jealousy was an ugly thing even among the most divinely beautiful creatures.

The Demons all remembered falling. Many did not remember their Creation. Instead, they remembered their wings burning. Their Lights malformed and some rotted or burned away. The creatures who survived crawled out of the pits were no longer beautiful even among themselves. Some chose to embrace these new forms. They used the same boiling sulfur that had destroyed them to etch markings into their skin. Some plucked away the black feathers they had grown and watched with glee as thick skin took their place. They clawed out their eyes and stuck them in new places. They ripped each other to pieces and used the mangled flesh to mold new parts for themselves.

Some cried. Some screamed and clawed at the gate between Heaven and Hell. They begged to be let back in. They begged to be forgiven. They begged. They begged.

One had simply sat at the edge of one of the calmer pools. It was something acidic, he was sure, but it did not burn him. He did not see the nebula red of his hair anymore. Instead, his world was black and white and grey and yellow and blue. He saw the yellow of his eyes. They’d been stars once. She had taken their beauty and left the painter blind to the colors he had Loved.

Aziraphale remembered his creation. His Light had come into being and the shock of suddenly Being had given his Light quite the fright. She had cradled him and cooed sweetly. There was nothing to fear. She had drawn out each coiled strand of white-blonde hair and each tiny fleck of blue was placed so carefully in his eyes. She had dressed him like a doll in such lovely robes and had brushed his wings until they’d shone with silver.

“What am I?”

“You are the Principality Aziraphale. You are the Angel of the Eastern Gate.”

“Am I special, Lord?”

“That is Ineffable.”

He had found himself placed gently upon the eastern wall of Eden on the first day of his existence. From afar he saw three beings guarding the other gates. He had smiled wide and waved, but they had ignored him. The Cherubim could not be bothered with a lowly Principality. He didn’t quite like the number of faces they had anyway.

On the seventh day of his existence, he gave away his sword and watched the Cherubim slowly fly into the heavens and he felt so many judging eyes. He met a demon that day with hair as red as the apple that had started all of this and wide yellow eyes. He'd never met a demon before. He'd never really met an angel before either. The demon didn't seem so bad, but he knew they were supposed to be enemies and that was enough for him.


	2. Chapter 2

In the over sixty centuries that followed their initial meeting, Crowley had become a silent patron of the arts. Da Vinci had needed no tempting. He was already destined for darker places, but he was a fun guy to hang out with. Michaelangelo's muted colors had been pleasing to eyes who were so limited. He'd been sort of stuffy though. Monet? Too much green. It all became shapeless. Van Gogh... Oh, he adored Van Gogh and pitied him all the same. He favored yellow and blue. The first time he'd laid eyes on [_Le Moulin de la Galette_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Van_Gogh_-_Le_Moulin_de_la_Galette4.jpeg) he had chosen not to tempt the man. Instead, he tried to inspire him with bright flowers and opportunity. Some humans could not be saved. Some humans were born broken. Later, he would come to hate even passing glances of _The Starry Night_.

The only brush the demon ever picked up again was the one he used for his hair. Red. He knew it was red and like he knew his eyes were yellow. He wore black in a time when humans wore muted browns and tans. He wore black when humans discovered brilliant yellows and the most gorgeous blue made, of all things, from the shells of a sea snail. He refused white in all shades, but red was acceptable. He could no longer truly see the color he had once loved, but he would be damned if he let Her win that battle.

His angel was always clad in off whites and tans. He wore accents of blue that matched his eyes and subtle golden threads were woven into his clothing to remind all the world of what he was. Crowley knew that whenever he saw the angel Aziraphale that he was seeing the truth. He did not need to analyze his coat to decide if it was green or orange. He saw him as he truly was down to the flecks of color in his eyes. In the hundreds of years to follow he would pry from a red-faced angel that this may have been on purpose.

"You always seemed to fancy yellow and blue. I wanted you to notice me."


	3. Chapter 3

In the old days, before the war, Heaven had been a realm of color and beauty. The angels wore robes that shimmered in the light. They willed their eyes pink or amber or patterned like what would one day become flowers. They painted their bodies with flecks of gold and silver. They implanted rubies into their foreheads and giggled as they imitated the higher-order angels with all of their eyes. Hair was grown out impossibly long or braided into great swirls. 

Even the Archangels had gotten in on the fun. Gabriel had simply chosen dark hair and sharp features, but his eyes were an overly friendly purple. Uriel chose dark skin that reflected gold in the celestial light. Beelzebub wore wings made not of feathers, but of a transparent, iridescent film that buzzed when they flew past.

And their wings? Oh... He remembered their wings. In those days an angel was not bound to white. No. Angels took turns painting the wings of their brothers. Some chose simple highlights of pine green while others dipped their feathers into molten sapphire. Always the flash bastard, Crowley had painted his wings the color of the nebulae in blacks and reds and swirling purples. He had found shining stones to imitate the stars hung them from the tips of his feathers. He had been a sight of flame-red hair and starfire eyes with wings that glimmered and swirled.

Heaven wasn't like that anymore. It was a place of hard, white angles and hard, white angels. Wings were regulation white and smart dress was expected. Hair came in five colors of various shades like ash blonde or dark brown. Black was out of the question. Eyes could be any color but they could not shimmer or shine anymore. Small adornments were allowed. An angel could still wear gems embedded in their skin, but gone were the days of liquid silver dripping and swirling about their skin. Angels must maintain uniformity. Angels must obey.

Hell had never been a place of beauty. It was hot and cramped and smelled constantly of eggs. Demons did not bother to mend their clothes when it was singed from acid dropping from the rusty pipes above them. Wings were black, though you could choose from various shades like charcoal or pitch, and a demon could forgo feathers for leathery flesh. What had once been shining gems had been warped into pustules by the sulfur lakes and beautiful, golden curls became living toads that were scolded when they tried to get a nibble of the ever-present flies. Demons saw beauty as being far too good.

Aziraphale had never seen the Heaven of old. He had been brought into being well after The War and was not jaded by memories of brothers cleaving each other in half. He had not heard the sobs as rebellious angels crushed windpipes and the loyal angels used great spears to impale their kin into the clouds. He knew only of the stark white, endless hallways and the rather lovely view. He had never seen the angels in their full glory nor had he seen the smiles of angels who knew no fear of Falling. Crowley envied him in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to just call the groups of angels brothers because siblings sounds weird and brothers and sisters is a mouthful. Also, was Beelzebub an archangel? The internet just says they were special.


	4. Chapter 4

After thwarting The Great Plan, an angel and a demon began to officially share the flat above A. Z. Fell and Co. They shared a bed with mismatched sheets and pillowcases. One side was always made while the other was left messy. The vanity in the bathroom was an absolute mess. Among the mess were at least six different hair pomades, three toothbrushes, a spilled bottle of nail polish, eight tubes of very expensive lotion, and two bottles of cologne. The kitchenette counter was cluttered with an espresso machine that cost more than most people paid in rent and a tea kettle so old it was most likely worth more than the espresso machine. A small bookshelf of old records was meticulously arranged in some order that only the owner could understand and on top of that bookshelf was a pile of old books that were always right on the cusp of falling over. Downstairs a backroom served as a sitting room of sorts. There was an old couch and chairs. A brand new flat screen had been mounted on the wall with a phonograph underneath. It was a home that melded two creatures' habits into an awful clash that stank of love.

Sometime after 30AD, it had become gauche to display your wings. In Heaven it was seen as vanity and in Hell there was no space to properly stretch them out anyway. Angels used stairs to reach the upper floors of Heaven and demons used elevators to navigate Hell. One no longer needed their wings to fly from place to place. There was always the chance that one might shed, as well, and it was always an embarrassing scramble to pick up fallen feathers or, in the case of some demons, scales, and flakes of skin.

Crowley holds between his fingers a long, grey primary feather. In the flicker of the fireplace, he sees thin threads of silver flash and shimmer as he turns it. It is not his feather. It is a feather he had watched fall slowly to the ground early that morning. In the pale light of their bedroom, his angel had climbed out of bed, stretched lazy and smooth, and had walked out of the room to dress. The feather had floated down from the pale, barely-there scar-like line that marked where an angel (or demon) held their wings.

This was not Falling. This was Going Grey.

They'd been left alone after their respective trips to Heaven and Hell. Another angel and another demon had been assigned their duties, or so they'd heard, and that had been that. Aziraphale had not Fallen. God had not said a word.

He stands fluidly and tosses the feather into the fire. It sparkles and resists briefly before curling and burning into nothing. Crowley had, for thousands of years, hidden a thousand things from his angel. He had hidden his desires to touch and kiss him. He had hidden every instance of declaring his love. He had hidden his disappointments and heartbreaks. He could not hide this from his angel who had never experienced The War, his angel who proudly introduced Crowley as his husband, his angel who still saw the good in the world.

The day progresses as most of their days did. Crowley brings Aziraphale tea and kisses his white-blonde curls. They walk down the street because his angel moans that he just needs chips with enough vinegar to float the Ark again. They lean together on the old couch while Aziraphale reads and Crowley pretends to care about whatever was on the television. They get ready for bed with Crowley slipping into a shirt that was a little too short but had been a gift from Anathema. It read "Trophy Wife" in an awful pink script and he would never admit to loving it. Aziraphale comes to bed shirtless and in soft pants in a peach and eggplant pattern. He didn't get the innuendo and Crowley would never explain it to him.

"Angel." In the years, only a few, that had followed the Apocal-Let's-Not, words had come easier between the pair, but this was not a bottled up argument over who was supposed to miracle the dishes clean. "I need to see your wings."

Aziraphale cocks his head. He's got one knee on the bed and pauses there. "My wings? It's not the season for a preening, my darling, and I'm not really in the mood I'm afraid." He properly climbs onto the bed and leans in to give the demon a gentle kiss but he's met with a slightly trembling hand being placed upon his knee. "Darling?" And when there is no reply from the demon he slowly unfurls his wings into the mortal plane.

Grey. Crowley's yellow, reptilian eyes see the flash of the golden band the angel wears on his left ring finger and the confused blue eyes that no longer meet his own. Everything else is grey.

"My wings." The demon lurches forward to grab the well-manicured hand that is suddenly trying to rip out one of the grey feathers. He's forced to grasp the angel's other hand as well and it is times like this that he is reminded that despite his dandelion puff appearance Aziraphale is the former Angel of the Eastern Gate. He is powerful and it takes all of his strength to hold the thrashing creature.

The lamp on the bedside table crashes to the ground with a wide swipe of feathers and bone. Next, the Mona Lisa sketch flies off of the opposite wall. The thick wrist bone of one wing slams a hole into the ceiling and leaves a smear of shimmering golden blood as it scrapes against the wood. Finally, after what feels like forever, his angel stills. Grey wings droop down and his corporeal form breathes hard. Wet, blue eyes meet Crowley's and he lets out a sob that the demon can feel rip through his chest. "My wings. My wings."

He had seen one of the seraphim once, back in the old days before The War. It had drifted by forever chanting: "Holy, holy, holy." Aziraphale choked on his words as he chanted: "My wings, my wings, my wings."


	5. Chapter 5

Golden blood smears onto his cheek as he gathers the angel close. The wrist of Aziraphale's wing bleeds slowly and the gold snakes down to eventually drip onto the floor before the bleeding slows and stops. The way he holds it no doubt indicates a break, but that is not something to deal with at the moment.

"Did I Fall?" His face is hidden and his voice muffled in the crook of Crowley's neck. He clings to his husband's stupid "Trophy Wife" shirt and nearly rips it.

"You would not be here if you had fallen, Aziraphale. This is...Something else." He presses soft kisses into the sweet-smelling hair tickling his nose. The man-shaped being in his arms smells like the angels do. It's a mix of cinnamon and ginger and ozone and the warmth of Aziraphale's cologne. He bleeds gold as the angels do. His holy tears sting where they drip onto Crowley’s skin.

This is not one of the Fallen.

Time passes, but time is meaningless when you've been alive since before time existed. Aziraphale shakily pulls away and makes a weak sound at the sight of the welts on Crowley's skin where his tears had fallen. "Oh darling, I'm sorry. I've made such a mess. Let me do something about this." His whole body shakes and he wrings his hands and doesn't "do anything about this." His broken wing hangs uselessly and the other presses flat against his body.

"Time heals all wounds, angel." Crowley pets his hair and then cheek. He isn't sure what to do. He can't remember ever seeing grey wings even in the old days. Slowly he unfurls his wings and he knows without having to look that they too are grey. Aziraphale's blue eyes are wide and go wet again. "Oh...Crowley." He breathes out so quiet that, if he was human, the demon would no have heard him.

"Didn't think wings could go grey. Think it's age?" The joke falls flat even to his ears. The room is not silent. There's the sound of the traffic outside and the creak of the building and the quiet breathing of their corporeal forms.

Crowley cups his angel's soft face in his hands and carefully uses his thumbs to stroke his cheeks. "When I was an angel I was a painter. Favorite thing I ever painted the humans call the Red Square. Not a very creative name, but it's not a very creative design." His angel's eyes go a little wide. Demons don't speak of these things. "I loved red. Got scolded by Raphael for using it too much." He lets himself glance back at his grey wings. "We discovered that we could paint ourselves. Used to be blonde. Never liked being blonde. Gave myself red hair and I stole two stars for eyes. Gabriel's the one who gave me shit for that one." He swallows hard. "The worst thing about the Fall wasn't the pain. She took away red. The others lost their beauty or their brains. They lost lovers and brothers...And I lost red."

He leans in and kisses Aziraphale's forehead. His hands go to the broken wing and he winces as his angel gasps in pain as the shattered bones are slowly knitted back together. "We used to paint our wings." His hand starts to shake hard. Crowley, unlike the other demons, still had an imagination. He had tried for decades to imagine color again, but he never could. He strokes his hand slowly over Aziraphale's feathers and watches them slowly fade from grey to gold. He hasn't picked up his brush in over six thousand years. Now he doesn't know why he ever put it down.

* * *

Years later there is a quiet, rapid knock on the door of A.Z. Fell and Co. They are most definitely closed, but something compels the demon to open the door. An angel stands before him. He thinks she has red-blonde hair. She has a heavy brow and a prominent, humped nose. She wears a blue blouse and tan trousers over her shaking form. He lets her in without a word.

"M-My name is Vincenzina." She stammers out. The shaking grows worse as she speaks. "Is it true... That you can fix those that have Gone Grey?"

Aziraphale stands in the doorway that leads into the main portion of the shop. He doesn't speak. This isn't the first scared visitor they've had and he knows it won't be the last.

"I can," Crowley tells her. She slowly unfurls her wings. They're a bit small, but she's rather small, and they're so, so grey. "I've always loved The Starry Night." She looks hopeful. Aziraphale gives him the damned soft look that always makes the demon bend to his will.

The angel leaves after indulging in a cup of tea and biscuits with the pink icing. Her wings swirl blue and yellow and white and she stands tall as they disappear.

"Third one this week." The demon comments as he leans in the doorway of the bookshop. "D'you think it means?"

His angel stands next to him. A hand rests warm and firm against his lower back. The other hand twirls a long, swirled grey feather between its fingers. "I don't know... But I suspect we'll find out soon enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](unbreakable-groundriot.tumblr.com/). You totally can’t find the link to my kofi there either. Every comment is appreciated and I try to reply to them all no matter how small!

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on tumblr: unbreakable-groundriot.tumblr.com


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